


Honey Trap

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternative Universe - Spy, F/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  <i>honey trap</i> slang for use of men or women in sexual situations to intimidate or snare others. AU prompt fill for Lynnie. <3</p>
<p>THANKS: to Jen & Mer for feedback and title assistance. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey Trap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somethingelseornothingatall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingelseornothingatall/gifts).



> Huge thanks to [fe-li-ci-ty for the gorgeous artwork](http://fe-li-ci-ty.tumblr.com/post/140649636646/honey-trap-by-machawicket-perfect-jaw)! I looooove it so much. <3

> Today is a good day, Felicity decides, munching happily on her cranberry muffin. Buzzzzz, her favorite coffee shop, is busy, but not outrageously so -- she got a table after only fifteen minutes of hovering, _and_ she didn’t even have to elbow anyone out of the way. Plus, the wifi is zipping right along (helped, of course, by her slight modifications on its upload/download algorithm), and she’s in a total coding groove. The program in her brain is flowing easily into supporting lines of code, elegant and spare and precise.

She’s in the best kind of groove, so much so that she realizes she’s matched the rhythm of her typing to the heavy beat of the song pumping through the small cafe.

“I _love_ this song,” she murmurs to herself, pausing to take another hit of her coffee.

In fact, everything is falling so perfectly into place, flowing so well, that she... okay, she _may_ have danced in her seat a little bit, before catching herself with a stifled laugh at her own ridiculousness. Though in her defense, (1) she mainlined most of her triple vanilla latte when she first sat down so she’s a little over-caffeinated at the moment, and (2) uh, Beyonce is on. It’s _impossible_ to sit still during a Beyonce song.

Still, she glances around to make sure no one noticed her impromptu dance party and sees a sea of faces tilted towards laptops and books at the tables around her. Except, oh, yikes, there’s a man in line to order who is totally watching her with the tiniest of amused smiles on his lips. And he’s a crazy handsome man -- shoulders broad in a standard issue black wool coat, eyes bright and blue, and mesmerizingly attractive _stubble_ shading his perfect jaw.

_Perfect jaw_? She shakes her head, because -- what? Since when is she into _jaws_? Though if she _were_ going to develop a sudden jaw fixation, well, this guy’s crazy-attractive jaw would definitely be in the running for _hottest jaw_.

And, _crap_ , she’s just sitting here staring at him like some besotted idiot. 

Her back goes rigid and she kind of half-smiles in embarrassment. The handsome man holds her gaze, but doesn’t do more than quirk an eyebrow ever so slightly in response. Somehow, she feels like he’s amused by her. And not a in a cocky, jerky, _look at that nerd with her total crush on my stupid handsome face_ way, but a softer, shared kind of humor.

Which is _crazy_ and what is she even doing, imagining some sort of instant connection with a random stranger just because he was looking at her while she made a small idiot of herself.

With a tiny shrug of her shoulders, she drops her attention back to the screen in front of her. Where she is _totally_ kicking ass on this code and needs to just get back in the groove. It’s important to get through as much of this as she can while she’s feeling it, while the program is coming to her in perfect waves, instead of waiting to the last moment and pulling an all-nighter. She needs to focus.

Except... she kind of can’t now? 

She growls a little in frustration, because -- she was literally _just_ in the groove, but now her fingers are sluggish and her attention split between coding and Mr. Handsome Guy. Who, she notes with far more interest than the observation warrants, is standing near the bar awaiting his drink while he scans the room. He’s not even doing anything interesting. Just... _standing while hot_ , but he sure has her distracted.

“Focus, Felicity,” she orders, lifting her hands from the keyboard to grab another long sip of coffee. Then she cracks her knuckles and shakes her wrists out, like a coding sprinter preparing for a heat, and reviews the last couple lines she wrote, letting her mind reconstruct where she was, what she was documenting. 

But... she can’t get all the way submerged. When it’s going good, Felicity’s swimming _inside_ her ideas, drawn by the current of logic and structure. When she’s _in it_ , the rest of the world fades into a the soothing hum of white noise. 

Now, it’s like she’s bobbing along the surface. The rest of the world is too bright, too loud, too _present_. Dammit.

She allows herself a single glare in the general direction of Mr. Handsome Guy, because her distraction is clearly his fault. With all of that unfair stubble and general kind of... smolder-y-ness. He’s facing away from her now, adding a bit of raw sugar to his drink, and she gives in to the temptation and lets her gaze trace his form. Even with the pea coat, it’s clear he’s got that Chris Evans-y broad shoulder/narrow waist thing going on. She really _enjoys_ that. Abruptly, Mr. Handsome Guy turns back towards the crowded selection of tables, scanning the room. 

Felicity yelps and drops her fingers to the keyboard, staring intently at the screen. She’s coding total nonsense at this point, basically just a binary bookmark for when she’s _actually_ back in the groove. She’s sitting with her back to the side wall of the cafe, so even as she very diligently focuses on her work (or all the _not doing work_ ), she can see Mr. Handsome Guy’s broad figure winding through the college students, moving closer.

And then Felicity freezes, because the scruffy young man beside her has started packing up, folding his laptop away, tugging a frayed scarf around his neck. Which means -- _crap_. Really?

Yes, in fact, fate is so cruel as to deposit Mr. Handsome Guy at the table beside her. He nods to the college kid and then slides into the seat beside Felicity. Like, _really_ close beside her. _When he shrugs out of his coat, the thick fabric actually brushes her elbow_ kind of close.

It takes a lot of willpower for Felicity to keep her mouth shut and her gaze on her screen. She’s typing “HOLY CRAP” in binary, over and over again, because Mr. Handsome Guy smells like manliness and pine trees, somehow? And he just pulled a copy of _The Odyssey_ out and tossed it onto the table, like she needs more reasons to pay attention to him. 

And she is nearly vibrating with a strange mix of embarrassment for the chair-dancing incident, and curiosity about him. He’s an anomaly in this shop -- well-dressed, professional, _alone_ but not studying. Well, unless--

“Are you a literature student?” she blurts out, turning to face him and _oh, God_ he’s really close, and if she thought he was handsome from across the room, he’s an impossibility here, a foot and a half away.

“Excuse me?” he asks, his sharp gaze fixed on her. He scans her quickly, lingering a little on her bright purple dress. 

“I just,” she tries, gesturing towards his book. “This is kind of a student hangout. Not,” she backtracks, wrinkling her nose, “ _hangout_ , really, just lots of students study here. And you have… that…”

His big fingers tap against the book cover for a moment, and then he tugs it a little closer. “Definitely not a student,” he tells her with the suggestion of a smile on his lips. “Just really like some of the writing.”

She tilts her head, studying him more closely. “Oh, yeah?” she asks. Not because she _disbelieves_ him, necessarily, but because the pieces aren’t fitting together yet, and she has this insatiable need to understand things. She wants to get her hands on all of his pieces so she can puzzle the picture together.

But Mr. Handsome Guy’s eyes narrow a little skeptically. He glances away, his attention shifting to the woman at the table on his other side. The woman is quite a bit older than most of the people in the cafe, and while Felicity doesn’t want to make assumptions, the other woman has been nursing a hot chocolate for like half an hour without looking at a book or a tablet, so she’s probably not a student. But she is, Felicity notes, _also_ paying quite a bit of attention to Mr. Handsome Guy. 

Though, honestly, who can blame her. Felicity’s kind of surprised to see some of the students are still engrossed in their work, oblivious to the grotesquely, unfairly handsome man in their midst. How did they not _notice_ him?

Speaking of Mr. Handsome Guy, he clears his throat, and then says quietly, “‘Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is born that is weaker than man.’” 

Felicity turns her attention back to him, but he’s tracing the cover art of his book, seemingly engrossed in… you know… just kind of randomly quoting _The Odyssey_ aloud. To himself. 

Or actually, Felicity realizes, _mis_ quoting it. Without taking a moment to consider, Felicity corrects, “It’s _bred_ actually.” Then she winces, because, _what the hell, Felicity_? 

She holds her breath in anticipation of Mr. Handsome Guy’s reaction. “Excuse me?” he asks, and he sounds incredulous and amused and _can a voice really be handsome_? Is that an actual _thing_?

Letting out her breath on a tortured groan, Felicity turns to face his stupid handsomeness head on. “Nothing. Just -- that quote?” she says, hands frozen in place on her keyboard as she tries not to drown in his unfairly blue eyes. 

Almost bashfully, he shrugs. “It’s one of my favorites,” he tells her. “I’ve found it to be quite accurate.”

“Oh,” Felicity says, not wanting to embarrass the man. Even if he can’t be troubled to memorize one of his own favorite quotes correctly.

“What about it?” he presses, watching her closely.

Crap. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of guy to let things go. So she sighs. “Sorry, it’s just -- the quote is ‘nothing is _bred_ that is weaker than man.’” He stares at her, eyes slightly narrowed. When the awkward pause grows a little _too_ long for her, a little _too_ uncomfortable, Felicity shrugs. “I wrote an essay about _The Odyssey_ in high school. Well, more precisely, about Homer’s critique of the human condition and the universal longing for home. So.”

He huffs a laugh, his lips faintly upturned, and says, “Okay.” His eyebrows furrow, and his puzzled look should _not_ be attractive. Felicity finds intellect hot, and a quick mind irresistible. Meanwhile, Mr. Handsome Guy is misquoting Homer, and she still kind of wants to bang him like a screen door in a windstorm. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I was just--”

She stops abruptly as the woman on the other side of Mr. Handsome Guy pushes herself to her feet, wrapping an oversized purple scarf around her neck as she moves hurriedly towards the exit.

Felicity turns back to Mr. Handsome Guy, only to find him watching Purple Scarf Lady push through the doors with a strange expression on his face. Then he turns back to Felicity and studies her for a moment. “My name is Oliver Queen,” he says, finally, his voice so quiet it’s a little hard to hear in the muted din of the coffee shop. 

She stares at his outstretched hand for a moment before she straightens and says, “Oh!” Reaching out, she takes his hand -- his warm, really kind of _giant_ hand -- and shakes it firmly. “Felicity,” she adds. “Smoak.” She pulls her hand back and gives just the _most_ embarrassingly stupid little wave. “That’s me.”

He’s watches her with a half-smile. “Nice to meet you, Felicity Smoak.” He’s still speaking softly, and Felicity realizes she’s drifting closer, leaning towards him so she doesn’t miss what he’s saying. 

And, goodlord, Mr. Handsome Guy, as a nickname, is wholly inaccurate from this close, because Oliver Queen is _beautiful_. His eyes are intensely blue, his nose strong but _just_ a little bit crooked, and that stubble on his obscenely cut jawline is just... Even his _eyebrows_ are attractive, and that’s not even a _thing_.

With a flush of heat in her cheeks, Felicity realizes she’s been staring vapidly at Oliver’s face like some kind of lust-addled half-wit. “Um,” she says. As recoveries go, it lacks a little something.

She’s still searching frantically for something to say -- for actual words strung together all sensible-like -- when Oliver arches one eyebrow just the slightest bit in what comes across to her as an attractively suggestive way and says, “How about we continue this conversation somewhere a little more private?”

And Felicity gapes at him. Absolutely gapes -- jaw hanging open, eyes stupidly wide, the whole nine yards. Because-- “What?” Oliver tilts a little closer to her, his expression calm and _not at all_ indicating that he’s… maybe…. kind of asking her out a little bit? Or, more accurately, implying that they should find somewhere to hook up. “It’s the middle of the day!” she protests, because clearly she still doesn’t have full control over what comes out of her mouth.

Oliver’s brow furrows in honest confusion, and _how_ can she still find him attractive? _How_? “Right,” he agrees. “But I don’t see what--”

“You _just_ met me,” she interjects. And then tells herself to calm down, because she’s _obviously_ misreading the situation. There’s no way that Mr. Handsome-- that _Oliver_ would really: (a) be hitting on her, and (b) expect her to go find some, like, _hourly motel_ or something after a brief conversation in which she corrected his misquote. It’s absurd.

Also, she’s really pretty sure motels-by-the-hour are a thing that exist primarily in fiction. So where would they even _go_?

And _why is she wondering that_?

“It’s pretty crowded in here,” he explains. “So as much as this was a great place to meet up, I think we should head somewhere a little more,” he hesitates minutely, then gives her a little shrug, “private.”

Felicity leans so far away from him that she elbows the beleaguered student at the table next to her. “Sorry,” she says, then glares at Oliver. “Are you serious right now?” she demands. Rather loudly.

_That_ gets a reaction out of Oliver. Eyes wide, he lifts both hands up to placate her. “Hey, hey, let’s calm down so we can--”

“You can’t just come in here all, you know, _handsome_ like that,” Felicity tells him. Again: _loudly_. “And just assume any woman in here will sleep with you after thirty seconds!”

Oliver’s jaw drops, and apparently it’s his turn to gape like a fish.

And, yes, okay, she said that _entirely_ too loudly, Felicity realizes, because the steady background hum of conversation is missing. She takes a breath and glances around, finding, to her horror, that most of the non-headphone-wearing people in the coffee shop have turned to stare curiously at Oliver and Felicity.

“Oh, frak,” she mumbles, cheeks blazing. 

“Felicity,” Oliver says, drawing her attention back to him. He still seems startled, watching her warily and shaking his head just a little bit, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Got that right,” she mutters, ducking her chin and wishing she’d forgone the ponytail this morning. Hiding behind her hair would’ve been a solid move. Totally defensible, because people are still staring. Felicity just barely resists the urge to cover her face with her hands.

“Felicity?” Oliver says quietly. “Please, can we just--?”

Whipping her head around to face him, she whispers harshly,“Go somewhere to have sex? No!”

“I am not trying to sleep with you!” Oliver whispers back, sounding somehow offended by the idea. Which... okay, good that he’s not some sort of gross pick up artist guy. 

But also a little bit _ouch_. Did he have to sound _offended_?

Oliver pauses, closing his eyes and taking a breath. When he meets her gaze again, he’s calmer despite the high spots of color that remain in his cheeks. “I wanted to have the rest of our conversation about the company somewhere else,” he says, lifting his hands off the table defensively. “That’s it.”

The company? Felicity blinks. “Huh?”

His entire demeanor shifts with her answer, from genial and embarrassed to rigid and focused. It’s an interesting switch, suggesting there’s far more to Oliver Queen than what meets the eye (not that she’s complaining about what meets the eye. _At all_ ). Felicity realizes with a little tingle of trepidation that she finds him really, really fascinating. Oliver’s gaze is laser sharp when he leans closer and asks, “Do you work for Merlyn Global?”

“What?” Felicity says, shaking her head despite the total left-field nature of the question. She stares at him for a moment, searching for anything that can help her understand what he’s talking about. But his expression is smooth and closed off, his eyes slightly narrowed with skepticism. “No. Why?”

“You’re wearing purple,” Oliver answers. Like... that’s supposed to make any kind of sense?

Felicity reaches up and touches his forehead lightly. “Are you having a stroke?” Because she’s honestly a little concerned about him at the moment, and she’s _sure_ that garbled speech is a warning sign.

“What? No!” Oliver bats her hand away. 

Felicity withdraws her hands, clasping them in her lap as she studies him. “I just--”

“I should go,” Oliver announces, snatching his book from the table and standing. He pulls his coat from the back of the chair, and the fabric brushes against her arm. He glances down at her, opens his mouth, and then closes it with a snap. 

“What?” she manages. Because _what_ is even happening right now? She met Oliver maybe five minutes ago, and this has been by far the weirdest conversation she’s ever had in her life. And she went to MIT.

“Felicity, it was nice meeting you,” Oliver says, and he actually sounds sincere. Before she can answer, he’s walking away.

Dumbfounded, Felicity watches him make his way between the tables towards the door, moving quickly but with compelling grace. As soon as the door closes behind him, at least a dozen people turn intensely curious gazes her way. Flushing again, Felicity stares down at her tablet for a moment, before glancing at the now empty table beside her like it can tell her what the hell just happened.

His coffee cup sits sadly abandoned on the table, and she stares at the Buzzzzz logo for a beat.

Felicity moves without really thinking it through. She dumps her tablet into her bag, tosses her phone in after it, and loops the strap over her shoulder. Standing, she yanks her jacket from the back of her chair and drapes it over her forearm so she has both hands free -- one for his coffee, and one for hers.

Because he just ran out of here after dropping a _seriously strange_ conversation on her, and she has _got_ to figure out what that was about. Also, _no one_ deserves to leave a perfectly prepared coffee behind.

When she bursts out onto the sidewalk, she checks both directions, looking for a broad set of shoulders in a black wool coat. Unfortunately, there are quite a lot of those in the middle of the day in this part of town. But she’s in luck -- Oliver is waiting at a crosswalk half a block away, and he looks over his shoulder just as she spots him. “Hey!” she yells, lifting his coffee cup. 

The WALK sign lights up, but Oliver steps to the side, letting other pedestrians past. He simply watches her approach, a small smile on his face.

As she gets closer, Felicity starts to doubt herself. What is she _thinking_? She accused him (loudly) of trying to sleep with her, then chased him down when he left? Like some kind of stalker? Panicking at what he must think of her, she lurches to a stop ten feet away from him. 

Head tilted slightly, Oliver moves closer, but slowly -- almost like he’s afraid to spook her. Felicity doesn’t budge, just watches him drift closer until they are, rather inexplicably, standing beside a large display window of shoes, staring at each other.

“Hey,” he says, glancing down at his coffee. “Uh, thank you.”

Felicity offers it to him, missing the warmth of the thick paper cup once he takes it from her with a nod of thanks. “I just thought…” She ducks her chin, because you really _can_ die of embarrassment, she’s learning. Her chest feels weirdly tight, and it makes breathing kind of challenging. She lifts her newly empty hand awkwardly. “Sorry. Never mind.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder, back in the direction of Buzzzzz. “I should--”

“No, wait,” Oliver interrupts, reaching out to touch her bicep lightly. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. Before,” he clarifies. “At Buzzzzz.”

She tilts her head, her curiosity resurfacing. He thought she was someone else. But someone who’s a stranger to him. “Because I’m wearing purple,” she guesses, glancing down at her dress for a moment. It’s too chilly to be standing out on the sidewalk holding her jacket instead of wearing it, but that appears to be what she’s doing. When she looks back up at Oliver, his gaze snaps up from her torso.

“Right,” he says. “So I’m sorry for the confusion.”

Felicity can tell he’s wrapping this up, getting ready to step away, but the pieces are finally starting to slide together in a logical way. _Improbable_ , but logical. Just to be sure, she asks, “Were you meeting a blind date?”

Oliver huffs a laugh. “Uh, no.”

With that possibility ruled out, Felicity is pretty sure she’s figured all of this out. Even though it’s a crazy idea. What’s even crazier is that Felicity thinks it might be right. “Is it possible,” she asks, stepping just a little closer to Oliver so she can keep her voice down, “that you’re a...” He quirks an eyebrow and she leans in to whisper, “spy?”

His reaction is telling -- his expression freezes in a really bad imitation of a smile, his body stiffens, and he says, “What? No, of course not.”

“You are!” Felicity pokes him right in the chest, because he is _totally_ lying to her face right now. 

“You’re mistaken,” he says with this pathetic little nod that just further convinces her that she’s right.

“For a spy, you’re a _terrible_ liar,” she tells him. He tries to argue, but she keeps talking. “You were trying to meet someone wearing purple who works at Merlyn Global.” She pauses, completing the puzzle with a satisfying mental click. “And that Homer quote was the secret greeting.” 

He’s shaking his head and protesting, but he’s actually really bad at lying. Like, _comically_ so. Which would seem to argue _against_ him being a spy, actually. “Felicity, no, I’m--” he splutters. “That’s not--”

“I’m totally right,” she tells him, and, yes, okay, she’s a _little_ bit smug about it. “That quote was like the password for the conversation about Merlyn Global. And that conversation was _supposed_ to be all clandestine, which is obviously why you wanted to have in private. Only I accidentally ruined everything.” She claps a hand over her mouth in horror. Because if he _is_ a spy and he _was_ trying to meet up with an informant, she totally messed everything up. “Oh, God, I ruined your secret spy meeting!”

Oliver takes her arm and tugs her a little closer, leaning in so close she gets a nice whiff of that piney fresh scent of his. Quietly, he says, “You didn’t ruin anything, but please stop saying that I’m a spy. We’re in the middle of the street.”

“I’m blowing your cover,” she realizes, and -- _Oliver Queen has a cover, because he is a spy_. Wow. Just… wow. She understands, logically, that this particular conclusion makes sense with all the pieces she’d put together, but she also did _not_ expect to meet, like, the American James Bond today. At _Buzzzzz_ of all places. “Oh, my God, I butt in to your super secret spy game to correct you, and -- oh, no, I hope these weren’t, like, national security secrets you were trying to gather?”

“Felicity, I was _not_ \--”

“But actually they kind of have to be, right?” she realizes, growing more and more horrified that she’d inadvertently mucked up something pretty important. “Because the CIA isn’t supposed to operate within our borders.” She pauses, thinking, trying to dredge up information she’d read years ago. “Or is that the military? Posse comitatus is about the army, right?”

“Felicity--”

““I’m pretty sure it’s that you _can_ investigate,” she decides with a small frown, “but only if you get tipped off by foreign intelligence. Right?” she asks, focusing back on him.

Oliver just gives her an exasperated look. “Are you finished?”

“No! I really do feel bad about screwing up your meeting,” she tells him, “ _especially_ if you were trying to get important information. Merlyn Global is a defense contractor, so... yikes, that’s probably a bad sign.” Felicity starts to fidget a little bit, wondering if there’s any way she can fix this. “Maybe I can help you find whoever was trying to contact you,” she offers. Because if he’s trying to get information that will help people, she should try to find a way to help him.

“Felicity,” Oliver says, and she snaps out of her spiraling thoughts and meets his gaze. They’re standing basically toe to toe now, speaking in hushed tones. God, he’s so pretty up close.

_Focus, Felicity_. “Hmmm?” she manages.

He looks up at the sky for a brief moment, as if seeking guidance from the heavens. Then he sighs and says, “This isn’t really the kind of thing where I’m allowed to involve random civilians.”

She grins at him, so very pleased with herself that she has, in fact, figured it out. “I don’t know whether to be offended you called me random, or happy that you admitted you’re a spy.”

“We really don’t call ourselves that,” he protests mildly, but his tone is suffused with humor. He tilts just a fraction of an inch closer, and there’s a definite hint of _something_ in his voice when he says, “I’m an agent.”

“Okay, well, _Agent_ ,” she shoots back, “maybe it’s your lucky day.” Oliver’s eyebrows jump up and she flushes. “Still no to the hooking up,” she blurts, and she _totally_ means it. Handsomeness quotient be damned. She rushes on, “I just meant that I can totally just hack the Merlyn Global servers and look for any suspicious actions -- people accessing things they shouldn’t, saving files to flash drives, anything like that.” Felicity takes a breath and _realizes_ what she’s saying -- and _who_ she’s saying it to. “I mean, I absolutely could _not_ do those things. At all.” She takes a step backwards, turning away from him. “Nope. Okay, I should go--”

“Felicity, hang on.” He touches her elbow gently -- he’s not holding her in place, but she stills anyway. The goosebumps on her arm are _obviously_ the chilly air, and absolutely not because of the feel of his warm palm against her skin.

“Are you going to arrest me?” she demands, turning back to face him. And if she sounds a little belligerent, well, she _really_ doesn’t want to go to prison. She would _not_ do well in prison. “I didn’t actually do anything wrong, but you might tell your little NSA friends to tap my phone.” She pauses, frowning. “Not that they’d be able to. I kind of customized the security programs on all my electronics.” She shakes herself out of it. “But that’s not the point. The point is--”

“That you offered to commit a felony,” Oliver interrupts dryly, “and then realized you’re talking to an agent of the U.S. government?”

Felicity purses her lips. 

He does that wildly attractive half-laugh thing, then squeezes her elbow gently before letting go. “I’m not going to arrest you, Felicity, and I’m not worried about missing the potential informant.”

“You’re not?” she asks, studying him warily. Because he doesn’t _look_ upset, but if he’d blundered into her day the way she blundered into his, she’d probably be pretty cranky about it. Even if it was unintentional.

“I’m not,” he confirms with a smile. “Listen, I’ve enjoyed talking to you, and I’m hungry. Would you like to join me for lunch?”

“Oh, no,” Felicity glares at him, putting her free hand on her hip. “No way are you going to charm me into the _CIA_.”

“Felicity--”

“I do _not_ look good in blue wigs,” she tells him with a regretful head shake. It’s true -- she’d tried on a sleek turquoise bob for some alien-themed party back in college, and it did _not_ work for her.

Oliver blinks. “What?”

“I may kick total virtual ass, but I am no Sydney Bristow,” she explains. He presses his lips together, like he’s fighting a smile and Felicity pokes his arm. “I’m serious. I would be terrible. I’m afraid of heights, and I _really_ don’t like sweating, so any sort of intensive fight training is _right_ out--”

“Felicity,” he interrupts, and the way he says her name on a laugh is just _too much_. His attractiveness, which started at unreal, just keeps increasing the longer they interact. Her breath honestly catches in her chest when he says her name with such _affection_. “I wasn’t trying to recruit you,” he tells her.

“No?” she asks, her skepticism on full display.

“No.”

"I'm an excellent hacker," she tells him, slightly offended (again) that he doesn't want her (again -- though differently). Then she wrinkles her nose. "I mean, _theoretically_. I would be an _excellent_ theoretical asset."

He's just grinning at her. Unfairly. "I have no doubt that that's true."

She tilts her head, examining him. "But you weren't recruiting me. Despite my assets."

He presses his lips together for a moment, like he might laugh if he tries to answer. "I was not."

“Then what you were doing?” she wonders. Because, honestly, it doesn't make much sense. None of their interactions so far have made any kind of logical sense. And she definitely doesn't understand the anxiety she can suddenly see in his frame.

“I was trying to ask you out,” Oliver says with a little nod. 

Felicity’s jaw drops in what must be a wholly unattractive shocked face. She tries, but can’t seem to come up with a response. Oliver shifts his weight as he watches her continue to _not answer_ , his fingers twitching at his side.

“Unless,” he says, “I mean, unless you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to--”

“I want to!” Felicity interrupts. Loudly. She blows out a breath and tries again. “I’d like to have lunch with you, Oliver, yes.”

“Yes?” His smile widens until he’s basically beaming at her. It’s hard to look directly at him, what with all the happiness radiating from him. Felicity had immediately seen through his lies earlier, but sees no signs of that now. His expression is open, his dimples out in full force, and she thinks maybe he actually _is_ this happy, just because she agreed to go out with him. Wow. 

She nods a little too enthusiastically. “Yes.”

He ducks his head for a moment, a relieved laugh escaping. When he straightens, he says, “There’s a great little Italian place about two blocks from here. Do you like Italian?”

“Everyone likes Italian,” she answers.

Oliver shifts closer and offers his arm. “Shall we?”

They walk in a strangely comfortable silence for a block, before Felicity nudges him with her shoulder. “Hey, Oliver.”

He looks down at her and arches that expressive, _sexy_ eyebrow of his. “Yeah?”

She mock glares at him. “This isn’t a honey trap, right?”

Amused, he pulls her closer. “No, this isn’t a honey trap.”

She leans into him a little bit. “Because you’d be the perfect honey.” Then she frowns. “Or, no. If I’m getting all _seduced_ by the honey, does that make you the honey or the bee?”

“The bee?” he echoes with a little huff of laughter. 

“Well, the honey doesn’t make itself,” she reasons. “It’s not sentient -- it’s just honey. The bees are--” She stops, delighted as the thought occurs to her, and grins up at him. “The _Queen_ bee!”

Oliver groans. “No.”

She may or may not take an amused little _skip_. Because-- “It’s cute that you think I’m _not_ going to call you Queen bee.”

Oliver stops them right there on the sidewalk, stepping really far into her personal space and tangling their free hands together. “What can I do to convince you _never_ to call me that?”

She wants so very badly to say _kiss me_ , but that’s crazy, right? They met like a half hour ago and are headed to their first date. There’s no need to rush. 

Except that they’re standing inches from each other, just kind of _gazing_ at each other. And maybe Oliver can read her as well as she can read him, because his teasing expression melts into something more. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

Slowly, slowly, he leans in. He stops a breath away from her, waiting for her reaction. Nothing about this is logical -- she's never met someone and so quickly felt this kind of _pull_. But everything in her is insisting that it feels right, and everything she can read in Oliver says that he feels it, too. 

So Felicity pushes logic to the side, presses up onto her toes to kiss him, and lets herself fall into whatever this is.

END

**Author's Note:**

> From Tumblr prompt. I want it where an international spy gets the wrong intel and strikes up a conversation with an informant but it turns out the other person is just normal. they aren’t a spy, they’re just having a coffee when this well dressed stranger quoted some pop culture reference and they couldn’t help but answer because like, it was so obvious
> 
> now the spy weekly talks shop while the normal person relates
> 
> “almost died last week”
> 
> “tell me about it, the new management is terrible”
> 
> [ _So this doesn’t precisely fill this prompt, but I hope you like it anyway, Lynnie!_ ]


End file.
